


The Coffee Shop Chalkboard and Adventures In Flirting

by vegashoods



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegashoods/pseuds/vegashoods
Summary: In which the chalkboard outside the cafe where Stiles works is misspelled, and Derek goes inside to tell him. Awkward conversation and numbers on napkins follow.





	1. Chapter 1

Derek Hale didn’t drink coffee.

The only reason he was even inside the cafe was because the tiny chalkboard outside advertised a “pumkin spice latte” and he felt obligated as a decent human to tell them that they’d misspelled the name of their own drink.

Unfortunately, the line was very long. And the barista, a flustered, gangly boy with hair at an awkward stage that was growing out of a buzz cut and thick eyebrows that looked like they wanted to escape to his hairline, wasn’t doing a great job of keeping up with the rush.

Derek figured that he was probably the one who’d misspelled the sign.

He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at the woman in front of him, who kept turning around and not-so-subtly checking him out. 

“You can take a picture if you want,” he told her in a falsely cheery tone. “Then you could stare at me whenever you wanted to, in the privacy of your own bedroom. Bathroom. Wherever you feel like it.”

The woman didn’t talk to him again after that. Derek felt bad for a few seconds, and then he saw her texting someone about what an asshole he was and how hot it was. He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the barista, who had now managed to knock a scone onto the floor and was looking way more upset than the situation called for.

Derek wondered how the poor guy had ended up stuck behind that counter when he clearly belonged typing at a computer, solving criminal cases for the FBI or whatever people who typed at computers did.

Finally, the woman in front of him reached the barista. Derek noticed a patch of whipped cream on the back of his head and decided not to mention it. The woman ordered a pumpkin spice latte and Derek rolled his eyes.

“Name?” the barista asked breathlessly, holding up a Sharpie and her cup. There were lines from the marker all over his fingers, and Derek wondered how uncoordinated you had to be to scribble on yourself with a Sharpie that many times.

“Beyoncé,” she said, batting her fake eyelashes at him and giggling. Derek rolled his eyes again and chewed absentmindedly on his thumbnail, wondering how much of his time he’d wasted with this.

One of the barista’s eyebrows climbed even higher, and it made a tiny crease on his forehead and Derek maybe thought it was adorable. He scrawled the name on the cup, probably for the ninetieth time that morning, and handed her the drink, smiling and telling her to have a good day in the same tone he used with every customer.

And then Derek stepped forward, casting one more irritated glance at the woman’s back as she left. 

The barista blinked at him with wide brown eyes, drumming his fingernails against the top of the counter. Derek didn’t think he noticed.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, I actually don’t–I don’t drink coffee. It’s gross,” Derek said. He cleared his throat, annoyed that a boy he’d never met was ruining his composure like this. Him, of all people. He was always composed.

Then again, he’d just waited in line for fifteen minutes to tell the barista something that he probably already knew. It wasn’t that surprising that he was flustered.

The barista smiled uncertainly–Stiles, his nametag read, and Derek wondered if that was actually his name–and stopped tapping his fingernails. “Well, we have food, too, if you’re into that,” he said. “There are, like, brownies, and cookies, and scones–actually, I just dropped the last scone on the floor, so probably not scones, but … yeah. There’s that.” Stiles flushed an even darker red than he’d already been and scrubbed the back of his neck.

Derek bit his lip to keep from smiling at how cute it all was and told himself to get a grip. “Actually, I just came to tell you that ‘pumpkin’ is spelled wrong on your chalkboard outside. But you probably already knew that. Maybe? I don’t know, but I figured I should let you know. Anyway, yeah, that’s why.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, I guess someone mentioned it,” Stiles said. “But, uh, thanks.” He was messing with the Sharpie now, opening it halfway and then snapping the cap back on. Derek watched as the cap came off too far and a black line dragged down Stiles’ hand, and it suddenly became very clear how his hands were so messy. Stiles didn’t seem to notice.

Derek tried to ignore the pained, awkward look in Stiles’ eyes. He also tried to ignore the fact that he was blushing, which he never did. He told himself that it was cold out, and that was why his cheeks were blazing pink. “I, um,” said Derek. “I mean, if you wanna take a little break, I’ll take a brownie. And then you could, like, pretend to spill something and write your number down on a napkin because I think you’re really cute. If you want.”

“Oh,” Stiles said again, and Derek closed his eyes, fighting the urge to punch himself in the throat. How idiotic could he be? There was no way that Stiles would be into him, no way that he was about to hand out his number to a random stranger who hated coffee and critiqued his signs. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Derek said without looking up. “I mean, wow, I don’t even know where that came from. It was really creepy, now that I think about it. Okay, can we just forget that happened? God. I’m so embarrassing.”

“Um,” said Stiles. He was holding the Sharpie, uncapped, above a napkin next to a messily wrapped brownie. “I mean, I’m totally gonna give you my number because embarrassing is my middle name and I also think you’re really cute, but it’d be cool to have your name. For, like, my contacts. Otherwise I’m gonna have to put you in as Beyoncé.”

Derek took a deep, slightly horrified breath. He’d just asked for a guy’s number without giving him his name. 

“Christ,” he said. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s, um–Derek. I’m Derek.”

“And I’m Stiles, but you probably already knew that. Nametags give an unfair advantage.”

Derek chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Right. So, um, I’ll call you? Text? What do you like better?”

“Definitely call me,” Stiles said. “I’m a classy lady.”

“Is Stiles your real name?”

Stiles smirked and slid the napkin toward him. “That’s information that I save for at least the fifth date,” he said.


	2. "Are You Calling Me a Twelve Year Old?"

He dialed the number for the sixth time.

All it would take was one tap, a tiny movement of his finger, and the call would go through. It would ring, Stiles would pick up, and they would plan a date.

But even though he wouldn’t admit it until after he’d had four beers at 3 AM, Derek was nervous. Shaky hands, sweaty palms, bite-swollen lips nervous. And it was ridiculous, it really was–it wasn’t like Stiles wasn’t interested. He’d given Derek his number. He’d said “call me.” So why was it so hard to just do it?

Derek checked his reflection in the mirror, like Stiles could see him. He was thankful that he couldn’t–Derek’s hair was a raked through mess, his face flushed, his eyes betraying his emotions. It was all about composure, and Derek had lost all of his.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pressed the call button, determined not to hang up after the second ring this time.

“Hello?”

Stiles’ voice sounded different over the phone; it was lighter, younger, with a slightly shaky tone that Derek hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was because Stiles wasn’t at work. Derek liked to believe that it was because Stiles was just as nervous as he was.

“Um, hi, this is Derek. From the coffee shop? Sorry it took me so long to call you. I just, um, you know.”

Stiles laughed. “Uh huh. Don’t worry, I can practically hear your anxiety. But never fear! While you’ve been panicking, no doubt wondering how you managed to get the number of the most attractive guy in town, I’ve been coming up with a plan.”

“A … plan?”

“Duh, a plan.” Stiles snorted. “I figured you wouldn’t have one. Anyway, something you’re gonna learn is that I’m one of the most cliche people you will ever meet. That being said, dinner and a movie is my ideal first date. And with that being said, if you wanna do something else it’s totally fine. Like, totally. If that sounds terrible, let me know, seriously. Because I want you to have a good time, and if you’re not–”

“Stiles–”

“I just wanna make sure that–”

“Stiles …”

“–and, you know, Netflix has a great selection if–”

“Stiles!”

Stiles’ voice went completely silent.

Derek chuckled and took a breath. “Dinner and a movie sounds great,” he said. “When do you want me to pick you up?”

\- - -

Stiles was waiting outside when Derek got there, sitting on the step and bouncing his knee so high that Derek was sort of afraid he was going to hit himself in the face. He was wearing faded jeans with an almost-hole in the upper thigh, paired with a batman shirt and a flannel thrown over it.

If this was how not-barista Stiles always dressed, Derek thought it was completely adorable.

Stiles raised an eyebrow as he stood to meet Derek by the side of the car. “One question,” he said. “Do you own any clothes that aren’t black?”

Derek shrugged. “It’s way easier to match outfits,” he said. “Also, I couldn’t pull off your style in a hundred years. It would make me look like an old man trying to fit in with twelve year olds.”

Stiles smirked. “Are you calling me a twelve year old?”

Derek closed his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Sorry. I’m, like, pathetically bad at this. I wasn’t–God. Like I said before, I’m embarrassing.”

“And like I said before,” said Stiles, leaning around Derek to open the passenger door and slide inside the car, “embarrassing is my middle name. Now drive me to food! I’m starving.”

\- - -

At dinner Derek tried, unsuccessfully, to guess Stiles’ real name.

“Mariachi?”

“That’s a kind of music.”

“Dennis.”

“Um. No.”

“Herbert.”

“His Bert.”

“Schiltoksvy.”

“Now you’re just throwing sounds together.”

Derek sat back in his chair, pouting. “Would you even tell me if I did guess it?”

Stiles leaned forward to close the gap between them, steepling his hands together on the table. “Well, since nobody has ever guessed it and nobody ever will, I’m not sure. But, if you hypothetically did guess right … no.”

Derek sighed. “Then what’s the point?”

“There isn’t one. You started this game, pal.”

“Pal?”

Stiles shrugged. “It makes you sound badass when you call people pal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

\- - -

The movie was a romantic comedy, something that Derek probably would have found funny if he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up from nerves.

The date was going well so far, better than he’d really hoped it could have, and now they were on the last leg. He didn’t want to screw it up now. 

Stiles seemed content to sit in his seat, gangly limbs somehow squished together so that he was curled into a ball with his knees at his chest, shoving popcorn into his mouth from the bucket that sat between them. He was oblivious to the fact that Derek was agonizing over whether or not to try and hold his hand. Derek had been sneaking his hand up the armrest for most of the movie, getting close enough to touch Stiles’ hand, and pulling away at the last second. He didn’t want it to be too soon. 

After five more failed attempts, Derek huffed and sat back in his chair, berating himself for having such a weak brain. 

And then Stiles promptly grabbed his hand and interlaced their fingers and leaned his head on Derek’s shoulder, and it was probably the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

It wasn’t perfect. Derek’s palm was sweaty, and so was Stiles. Stiles couldn’t seem to stop his flow of commentary, and the people around them were starting to get irritated (even though Derek thought it was endearing). They couldn’t seem to find a very comfortable position, and Stiles accidentally smacked Derek in the face once when he was using his arms to protest a decision one of the characters had made.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best night Derek had had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this wasn't gonna turn into anything but my friend has been begging me to continue the coffee shop blurb so here it is...i don't like this part as much but i'm thinking about turning this into a series of blurbs/mini fic so let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> my first teen wolf writing ever and my first post on this site! i'm also on tumblr @vegashoods if you wanna check out my stuff there.


End file.
